This Ain't A Song For the Broken Hearted
by Cantati
Summary: ... It's Just My Life / It's been five years since Dublin. Enough time to begin and end a relationship, snapshot moments stretching out into half a decade, and Arthur sits in a bar and thinks of Eames.
1. Chapter 1

_Written for the 2011 inception_bang._

_Warning: The end of this chapter is rated M, but the rest of the story is T, hence the overall rating on the story.  
><em>

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><p>It's been five years since Dublin, and Arthur needs a drink.<p>

It's a lavish hotel, one he would never choose for himself, and there's mahogany and red drapery everywhere. It's very Mal, he thinks, a weary smile painting itself onto his lips as he thinks about Cobb, about how he finally did something everyone else managed to a long time ago. He knows he shouldn't judge, but a bullet to the head often offends, and as much as they all loved her, Mal the projection wasn't [and was never going to be] the same as Mal the person. He throws a nod at the concierge, and collapses into a seat at the mostly empty bar, resting his head in his arms until a drink arrives at his elbow. He looks up, but the bartender is already at the other end of the bar, pouring drinks for an impatient couple that take the glasses and retire to the shadowy corner of the duskily-lit room. He takes a slow sip, the burn spreading through him, and he realises just how much he needed it. He cups the glass in long fingers, and glances around, the drive to map out the room, the exits, count the people, evaluate the danger too deep to shake off with a single drink.

It's upmarket, this hotel, on the outskirts of L.A., far enough that he can forget about the busy city, not too far should the team need him, should _Eames_ need him...

He pauses, clattering the ice around the bottom of his empty glass. Working again with Eames, after the years building up like a wall between him-now and him-_then_ had been... telling. The casual gestures, the pet names [so called], they all reeked of a man poking fun. Only Arthur heard the bite, the barely disguised poison seeping into every _dear_, every _sweetheart_, every _darling_. The thinly veiled malice hiding behind every good natured kick. The unconscious loathing shielded by flirting and faux-groping. He didn't think seeing Eames again would be like... this. He knew it would be different between them, of course he did [how could it not be?]. He just wasn't expecting that Eames would be so much the same as he was last year, two years ago, five years ago.

Looking up, he leaves memories melting with discarded ice cubes and gazes around the bar with heavy lids. Mostly couples, some single people, drinking to forget, or to remember. He doesn't know which. [Which applies to him again?] He pinches at the bridge of his nose before signalling for another drink. The bartender is tall, handsome, with unruly hair that falls in his face no matter how many times he slicks it back with his hands. Arthur orders a drink quietly and the guy slides it to him with an easy smile that looks to close to an Eames' brand grin. Something in his stomach twists and the tilted corners of his lips warp into a grimace as raw nerves sizzle. He hides it with a swallow of scotch and smiles again, emotions locked away once more, but the bartender has already wandered down to the other end of the bar to serve an older gentleman who sips from an almost empty brandy glass. He has a pale line where a wedding ring should sit, and his eyes are open, but unseeing, blank, and Arthur is struck by the thought that this is what _he_ looks like now, lost in his thought-memories, fuzzy photographs of the past running through his head. He glances over his drink, cradling it in a hand as he pretends not to watch the man, as lost in his own world as Arthur was in his.

He looks older than Arthur suspects he is, aged by whatever experience erased the wedding band from his finger. He looks fifty, but moves with the ease of a much younger man as he finishes his drink and tosses a handful of notes on the polished mahogany bar top and leaving, throwing a nod in the bartender's direction. Arthur watches him leave idly, taking another swallow. Crunching on an ice cube [a bad habit, but one he can't seem to shake, even after fifteen years], he scans the room again, turning back round when he hears someone sliding onto the seat next to him.

_Eames_.

With a level of professionalism that surprises even himself, he puts the glass down and swivels in his seat to face the bar, back ramrod straight. 'What do you want, Mr. Eames?' he asked, clipped tones giving nothing away.

'Nothing at all, darling. Can't a man enjoy a drink at-' he checks his watch. 'two thirteen? PM.'

'What I do on my own time is nothing to do with you, Eames. Certainly not my drinking habits, when and where they may occur.'

'Be that as it may, I have a proposition for you, and as much as I love uninhibited Arthur, I would very much like for you to remember this conversation. For future reference, of course.' Eames' hand curls around the half finished drink, tugging it gently away from Arthur and sliding it down the bar, curving it between his propped elbows and waving the bartender away suavely.

'The last proposition of yours I accepted ended up lasting three years and was the single most soul destroying experience of my life. I have no desire to repeat that, Mr. Eames.' Arthur fires back, sounding in control when in reality everything he feels is fraying at the edges.

There's a long silence from Eames as he stares into the glass under his chin, the confiscated scotch drawing his gaze just as it drew Arthur's. 'We were good together though, weren't we?' he said, sounding both childlike and grown up at the same time, a trait Arthur has yet to master. He sounds both boastful and lost, looking at Arthur with a strange emotion clinging to the edges of his expression.

Arthur thinks for a too-short second and acquiesces before he can dwell more on his less than savoury past. Eames smirks properly at that. 'We were fucking amazing, sweetheart,' he says, wistful.

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><p>Rain rattles the window, and Arthur knows it's a cliché, even as he thinks it, but it's true, the age old windowsill rotting and loosening the clasp of the pane, producing a reed thin whistle that went straight through him, and a clatter just loud enough for him to hear over the noise of the 'pub' downstairs. Interspersed with the pitter patter of the rain, and the fact that the noise downstairs just swelled as the door banged open, Arthur knows he isn't going to get any sleep tonight. He pulls his dress pants back on and his button up shirt, slipping his feet into his shoes and padding out of the room, buttoning his shirt on the way. The stairs creak as he descends, as always, and he's been here long enough to navigate round the stair that sags as it's stepped on, screaming protest at the weight.<p>

He's been in Dublin for three weeks, and while everyone else thinks New York is the city that never sleeps, Arthur knows Dublin must be running a close second, as no matter what day of the week it is, the business underneath is room is always open, and always full. The Irish really do believe in 'It's 2AM somewhere,' Arthur reflects, as he waves a greeting to Declan, the kid behind the bar and Molly, his mother, collecting glasses and flirting with patrons with an easy smile on her face. Folding himself into his usual, miraculously empty table, he smiles thanks at Molly, who slides a glass of something cold and alcoholic across the table to him. Vodka and coke, like always. 'No problem, darlin',' she replies in her thick, Irish brogue, and she's off, skirting around tables, snagging empty glasses and dodging stray hands.

'Darling?' A voice behind him, cultured, smooth, makes him turn. Lounging at the table behind him is, Arthur assumes, the source of the question. 'It suits you,' the man continues. His eyes are glassy with alcohol, but his voice is steady and his balance impeccable. Arthur looks him up and down once, subtly. His hair is slightly mussed and dark, falling across his forehead the same way Arthur's used to, and the aforementioned glassy eyes are hazel, light brown filled with flecks of green, bronze and even gold. There's maybe two days of stubble on his face, and it gives him a rugged look. Arthur's never made any secret of his... preferences, and it's been a long time since Tom. He smiles, and raises an eyebrow, tilting his chair slightly.  
>'Maybe so. And you would be?'<p>

The stranger's lips curve as he smiles round the neck of his beer bottle. He takes a long, slow drink, angling the bottle upwards as Arthur stares at the long, perfect line of his throat. He swallows, and puts the empty bottle on the table in front of him, before twisting his chair and clacking it down on the stone floor at Arthur's table gracefully, more graceful almost than Arthur is stone cold sober.

A bead of condensation runs down Arthur's glass. The stranger watches the slow trickle with suddenly sharp eyes. He looks up, meeting Arthur's brown eyes with his own multicoloured irises. One side of his mouth tilts into a lopsided smirk. 'I'm Eames. Do you have a real name, _darling_?'

Arthur swallows down his drink, nodding at Declan as he waves another glass his direction. He runs his hand through his hair, still not used to the length. Just after arriving in the city, Arthur had sought out a barber and had his hair sheared off, leaving maybe two inches of the previously too-long curly hair that hung in his face. It bristles, and he combs it back with both hands, rubbing at the nape of his neck, tired. He smiles wearily at Eames. 'Mark.' The false name falls easily off his tongue, and he wishes for more to drink, to wet his suddenly too-dry mouth.

Eames tilts his head, squinting slightly. 'I think I like darling better.'

'I'm sure you do, Mr Eames,' Arthur says easily, accepting the glasses and the bottle from a smirking Molly, her knowing smile splitting her face in two.

'So..._Mark.,_' Eames begins, snagging a glass and the bottle of spirits, pouring a generous measure of some amber liquid into the tumbler. 'You're American.'  
>'Very astute.' Arthur smiles wryly, accepting the drink and taking a long swallow.<br>Eames shoots him a look, lips morphing into something that can only be called a pout. Arthur hides a fond smile [too fond for someone he's only met, but feels like he's known forever, and what's with that, anyway?] behind the scotch. The Englishman takes a drink and closes his eyes in bliss. 'The Irish are rowdy bastards, but they do know their vices.' He chuckles to himself, before opening his eyes and focusing them on Arthur. 'You,' he says, pointing lazily at Arthur. 'are not nearly drunk enough.'

Arthur shakes his head. 'I don't get drunk. It wouldn't be... conducive.'

'Conducive... to what?'

'My job.' Scotch on an empty stomach is probably making him more loose-lipped than normal. 'I work for the government. Sort of.' He's saying way more than he meant to at the start of this sentence, but as Eames shifts his chair ever so slightly closer, Arthur just can't bring himself to care.

Eames raises an eyebrow, plying Arthur with more alcohol. And they drink together, talking, not about anything in particular, or at least nothing important. Eames was already drunk when they met, but Arthur finds himself being matched drink for drink until well into the early hours of the morning, and realises that had he wanted to, Eames could have drunk Arthur so far under the table he'd be lying on Eames' shoes, drooling. Possibly with severe alcohol poisoning. Somewhere along the way, Eames retrieves a poker chip, battered and chipped, from his pocket and begins tapping it off the already scuffed and marked table top. 'Good luck charm,' is the only answer Arthur gets regarding it, and he dismisses it, drawing no parallels between that and the lighter that nestles in his pocket, the butane inside long since used up.

Somewhere between one bottle of scotch and another of tequila [the little voice telling Arthur never to mix drinks long since silenced], they end up back in the same room Arthur had vacated some hours earlier. It's so early the soft lines of dawn are peering through the thin curtains, and Arthur just knows that sleep won't be forthcoming tonight [this morning, technically].

He's lounging on the bed, knocking back another shot, and somewhere along the way he lost his shoes and socks, and the buttons on his shirt are slowly creeping open. Eames, to contrast, is reclined in the chair that accompanied the desk in the corner, looking perfectly composed and fully clothed. Or, as fully clothed as he had been when Arthur had first encountered him, the top three or four buttons of his admittedly hideous teal shirt undone to frame a smooth, lightly tanned expanse of chest that Arthur had unashamedly been admiring for at least the last forty five minutes.

Eames passes the bottle, and Arthur takes a long drink of whatever-the-hell-it-is, slopping a little onto his previously pristine [if rumpled] white shirt.

Eames positively radiates smugness. 'Is this you not getting drunk, darling?'  
>Arthur frowns. 'This isn't drunk,' he says, only slurring his words a little. He gestures to himself, and more liquid spills over the lip of the bottle, running down his wrist. Eames takes it upon himself to rescue it.<p>

'Oh no?' he raises an eyebrow, the bottle safely on the desk in the corner, out of easy reach.

Arthur shakes his head. '_This_ is intoxicated,' he says, making it through the sentence without stuttering, and feeling abnormally proud of that fact.

A fond chuckle and shake of the head from Eames, and suddenly he's on the bed next to Arthur, an arm slung around his shoulders. 'I think not, darling.'

'Stop calling me that,' Arthur grumbles, shifting slightly, but making no move to wriggle out from under Eames' arm.

'Why?' Eames asks, smiling that infuriating smile that Arthur shouldn't be able to consider familiar after only hours, but he still does.

Arthur gives the matter some serious thought, his brow furrowing. 'It's annoying,' he settles on, finally.

Eames laughs, a short, sharp bark of surprise that makes Arthur flinch. 'All the more reason to do it then, _darling_,' his voice drops as he whispers the last word languidly into Arthur's ear, tongue flickering to kitten-lick at the shell of it.  
>A puff of shock from Arthur and he turns to face Eames, ask him what in the hell he thought he was doing, and his lips are covered by something warm and soft and wet, and Arthur finds himself kissing back before it registers that this is Eames, a virtual stranger, and Arthur does <em>not<em> do this with strangers. Not _ever_.  
>And then it registers that Eames' tongue is pressing insistently against closed lips, and a hand is sneaking along the waistband of Arthur's pants, fingertips dancing along sensitive skin, and the assault is too much for Arthur so he's gasping, and his hips arch, and Eames is smiling into the kiss, swallowing the indecent noise escaping from Arthur. They part momentarily, breathing hard, as Arthur stutters out, '<em>Fuck<em>, Eames.'

Eames starts pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along Arthur's jaw, punctuating each with a word. 'All in due time,' he pauses, moving back to look Arthur in the eye, mouths millimetres apart. _'Darling._'

Arthur's breath hitches in his throat and he lunges, crushing his mouth on Eames' with a clatter of teeth and tongue and lips, and it's Eames' turn to moan sinfully, splaying his fingers on the bed next to him even as he wraps his free hand around the nape of Arthur's neck, brushing the fine hairs there and making him shiver. Arthur braces his arm and gently rolls the older man, sliding hips over his slowly and grinding against him. He's half-hard already, and the choking, breathy sounds that his movements elicit from Eames mean he's aching, straining against his jeans.

Their lips meet again, and Arthur's is struck by how very _right_ Eames' mouth feels against his, how they fit together so perfectly on the rickety [but thankfully silent] bed. Their legs tangle together, and Arthur's hands grip Eames' hair, tugging ever so slightly as he scrapes his teeth over Eames' bottom lip, yelping as the until now complacent Eames gripped at the dish of Arthur's pelvis and switched them, dropping him back down on the bed face up as Eames smirked. 'Nice try, love.' His hand danced down to Arthur's pants, dipping a thumb under the waistband and stroking the velvet skin there. Arthur keens, and presses his hips up into Eames. 'Now, now, none of that, darling,' he says, somehow having undone most of the buttons on Arthur's shirt, seemingly without using his hands. He scrapes blunt nails down the smooth chest, mixing the perfect amount of pain and pleasure as Arthur whimpers [a manly, totally in control whimper], throwing his head back against the pillow. Eames licks a slow, long line up his neck, pressing a kiss to the hollow under his ear before drawing back, settling on his haunches where he's straddling Arthur's hips, long fingers deftly undoing the remaining buttons on his shirt and shedding it, dropping it on the floor just by the ratty rug partially hidden by the double bed. Arthur paws at his own shirt, undoing the last button and arching, trying to remove it, and Eames shifts backward a little, allowing him to sit up and remove the offending item of clothing.

Now on more equal footing again, Arthur claws eagerly at Eames' hips, belt, the small of his back as his lips work at his collarbone, sharp teeth nibbling tiny red marks into the flesh not covered by the tattoos that swirl and skate across the Englishman's shoulders and biceps, dribbling down one shoulder blade idly. Eames places one hand on Arthur's now bare chest and one on his hip, pushing him gently but firmly down onto his back again, tongue making its way from his Adam's apple down Arthur's chest and across the taut stomach muscles while deft fingers make quick work of the belt and fastenings on his pants. The younger man lifts his hips slightly to shimmy out of the pants and underwear, a shudder running through him as hot air gusts across his cock, bobbing towards his stomach, because it has been a long time since Tom, since anyone looked at him like Eames is looking at him now, already full lips kiss-swollen, blue-green eyes heavy with lust and want and _need_, the vibrant colour almost completely obscured by blown pupils, no trace of alcohol in them. His lids are hooded, and when he looks up at Arthur, his lips slightly parted, hovering over Arthur's dick, Arthur releases a choking breath, letting his head fall back again, one hand fisted loosely in Eames' hair as his eyes close and his hips arch as Eames opens his mouth and engulfs his cock to the hilt.

Eames 'hmm's with laughter, and the vibrations travel from his cock to the ball of heat already pooling in Arthur's stomach, and meaningless babble falls from his lips as Eames' head bobs up and down, and Arthur doesn't know what he's doing with his tongue but he never wants him to stop, and he tells him this, Eames' name twisting itself around _oh god never stop_ and _I'm gonna come_ and _fuck_ all melding on Arthur's tongue until Eames pulls almost completely off his cock, leaving just the tip in his mouth as he kitten licks at it for a few seconds, before opening and swallowing his cock until his nose bumps against Arthur's stomach, and Arthur's exploding and imploding at the same time, the burn in his stomach sucking all the heat from his body to the spot just behind his hips as he comes violently down Eames' throat, his eyelids flashing white as he squeezes his eyes shut, and he's sure Eames is leaving thumb shaped bruises on his hipbones. At this moment in time, he can't really bring himself to care.

He opens his eyes and Eames is there, kissing him, and Arthur can taste himself on Eames' tongue, and he can feel himself hardening again already, marvelling at this effect that Eames has on him. Eames' hard-on presses into his hip insistently, and he looks up at Eames, who puts a hand just under his shoulder blade and rolls him so his chest is pressed against the comforter underneath him. Eames' hot breath is on his neck, and his voice is low and rough as he whispers in Arthur's ear. 'Are you sure you wanna do this, babe?' His voice is so heady that Arthur's breath catches in his throat and he nods mutely, pressing backward against where Eames is sitting, denim covered erection pressing against the crease where Arthur's ass meets his thigh. Eames chuckles, and then he's gone, a cool breeze blowing against Arthur's sweat slick skin. He turns his head to watch Eames rummaging through a drawer on the desk, smirking as his hand emerges with a small bottle of lube. There's a look in his eye, and he's just far enough away that Arthur can't see what it is. He wiggles his hips as he escapes from the all too constricting jeans and underwear, standing naked in front of Arthur, cock curving proudly upwards.

Something occurs to Arthur, and he croaks out that he's clean in a lust-drunk voice. Eames grins a predatory smile and parrots it back, voice equally rough.

The bed creaks as he kneels on the edge of it, warming the bottle between large hands. Arthur stills feels the slight chill as it mixes with the burn as Eames' lubed finger breaches the tight ring of muscle without warning. His back arches as another finger is added, and he must have crooked them slightly because he can feel something pressing on that spot inside him that makes his vision explode white stars. He writhes on the bed under capable hands as Eames whispers sweet nothings, endearments falling off his lips as his forearm holds Arthur's hips still, and he adds another finger, scissoring them until Arthur's so stretched he doesn't know when the pleasure-pain became just pure adulterated pleasure and there are sounds escaping from him that he _knows_ Tom never heard from him.

Arthur's hands fist in the now crumpled and sweat-damp sheets, blunt nails dragging precipices across them as he feels the blunt head of Eames' cock at his entrance. He can't push backwards, Eames' arm across the small of his back effectively stilling him, and he's reduced to mewling pathetically as Eames enters him maddeningly slowly, seemingly inching his way in mere millimetres at a time.

He pauses when he's fully sheathed for a few moments, those seconds passing like time in a dream; slow, syrup dribbling through treacle, before he pulls out almost completely, leaving just the barest hint of the head, and Arthur whines as the loss of having Eames skin to skin, having Eames inside him feels cold and lonely before the breath is knocked out of his lungs and his vision blurs with desire as Eames slams back inside him, and all he can feel is the man wrapped around him, on him, _inside_ him. He feels almost too full, and he shifts as Eames sets a rhythm, fast enough to burn, but not slow enough to torture, and it takes one, two, three thrusts before he's coming again, spilling hot and wet over the unsalvageable sheets.  
>Eames follows him over the edge, moaning sinfully as Arthur's muscles strain and bunch around him, squeezing every last drop of arousal out of the older man until he collapses, elbows and knees buckling until he's draped over Arthur's naked body like a sheet. 'Well, that <em>was<em> fun,' he purrs, panting slightly, puffing hot air into Arthur's ear. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Sorry for the delay in updating, I was busy finishing up fics for various big bangs._

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><p>'To begin with,' Arthur adds, his throat dry and voice rasping, suddenly. He reclaims his scotch and finishes it, needing something, anything, to wet his mouth.<p>

The shadow of something appears in Eames' eyes, and Arthur used to know that look, used to know all of Eames' looks. Not anymore. On days like today, when all he wants is to sit and drink until he doesn't know whether it's a dream of reality, his totem the only thing keeping him anchored, he asks himself whether he forgot Eames' quirks and smiles, or whether he just didn't want to remember. One side of his mouth quirks, and Arthur swears he used to know that lopsided grin as well. 'Don't be pissy, dear,' Eames says, expression staying determinedly fixed in place.  
>Arthur snorts indelicately. 'The start of our relationship was a day of drunken screwing. I think I have grounds to be 'pissy'.'<p>

'Don't say screwing. It's so crass.' Eames orders a drink with a semi elegant wave and slides a sideways leer at Arthur. 'We fucked. Sounds so much more fun, don't you agree?'

'And that's not uncouth?' Arthur grimaces as he looks down at his empty glass, tapping at it in irritation.

'We expect it from me, darling. You, however, are far more sophisticated than I.' Another snort from Arthur. 'What?' Eames slides closer, thigh flush against Arthur. 'Surely you haven't gotten bored of the names already, dear? You did love them so.'

'That was a long time ago, Mr. Eames.'

'Not too long ago, Arthur.' There's a slight shift at Arthur's use of the word 'Mr.', a tension in the air that wasn't there before. Eames holds himself still, the near permanent jiggle in his leg frozen momentarily as he draws just a little further inside himself.

Arthur pretends a thrill of pleasure doesn't run through him at seeing the irrepressible Eames just a little bit less heart-on-his-sleeve. Sometimes Eames wears his emotions naked on his face, and Arthur has to turn away, invaded by the feeling that this simple act of Eames looking at him is too private even for Arthur [the recipient of the look] to intrude on. Where Eames is concerned, to Arthur, emotions hurt no matter who's feeling them.

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><p>It's been eighteen months since Dublin, and since then Arthur's travelled the world twice over and then some, collecting aliases like people collect stamps. He lost count of fake names after the first dozen or so, but he keeps collecting, until there's a drawer in his Paris apartment filled with passports and drivers licenses, a veritable wealth of documents to play 'Who will Arthur be today?'<p>

Today he's just Arthur, a rarity for him. He's just finished a three month job as Glenn Sandler in Dubai, a job with dubious morals and even more dubious outcomes, but right now, he's sitting outside a small cafe somewhere in Venice, with Cobb next to him, sipping idly at a latte as they watching Italians living their lives around them. Cobb is tapping his spinning top against the table quietly, looking as skittish as Arthur feels. He doesn't bother to check his own totem, he knows he's dreaming.  
>What he doesn't know is why, so when Cobb slides the coffee cup away from him and glides into the shadows, graceful as a grieving man can be, Arthur follows him, glancing around at the projections. They aren't violent, or looking at him with anything more than idle curiosity.<br>Yet.

It doesn't take him long to figure out who they're following, as they slide around a corner in a practised skulk and sees Kyle up ahead, tailing a woman who strides purposefully ahead, heels clacking on the cobbles of Venice. 'Forger?' he murmurs, lips barely moving as he and Cobb close in to Kyle, who acknowledges them with a nod and falls into step with them.

'Jane,' Kyle repeats, equally as imperceptible. Arthur may have been cut off from what most people would consider normal human civilisation for the last quarter of a year, but he understands a semblance of humour. Jane, the given name for a woman with no identity, is a forger.

Okay, maybe he has been cut off from normal, well balanced people for a while. With a sideways glance at Cobb, his hand twitching unconsciously towards his gun every few seconds, and Kyle, although this was more an innate knowledge of the dream they were in now, and exactly what was lurking in the shadowy waters of Venice, made Arthur wonder about the exact level of sanity displayed by his team. Of course, he never promised to be the picture of mental health himself. Kyle slips away from the group, sidling round another corner and disappearing for a few moments, before reappearing in front of Jane. Arthur and Cobb split up and corner the woman. It may be Kyle's dream, but Cobb never trusts anyone not to kick themselves out of a dream, somehow [he always was the paranoid one], or escape and run or hide until Amy, the chemist, does it for them.

As they approach, Arthur's ears pick up the hushed conversation Jane and Kyle are having. It's in perfect German, and he knows he'll have to translate, because as skilled as Cobb is at killing people without making a sound, he doesn't speak German. Seven other languages, but not German. As he relays the conversation between their architect and Cobb's new hire, he notices something. A flicker, out the corner of his eye, every time his gaze flashes past the forger. 'Cobb,' he murmurs, stopping his translation momentarily. 'You know she's forging right now, don't you?'  
>'Uh-huh,' Cobb mumbles, eyes still fixed on 'Jane', in case she made a move, no matter how miniscule.<br>'And you didn't deem it important enough to tell me?' Arthur demands, voice rising to a whisper, even as he switches to Greek, flawlessly. He's counting on it being a language not spoken by either Jane or Kyle.

'Figured you'd work it out on your own,' Cobb returns in English, finally turning his complete attention to Jane and striding forward, conversation apparently over as he addresses the mystery woman.

'Mr Eames, excellent work.'

_Eames?_

'Jane' [apparently, Eames] turns from where she trails her hand up Kyle's arm, frowning slightly as she fights to contain the illusion, but it's gone. They all know the trick, and Jane is nothing but a paper mask to them, one that Mr Eames discards shortly after. 'Excellent work?' he asks, in the accent that made Arthur's breath catch in his throat when whispered at just the right volume, rubbing his hand over at least three days of stubble.

'You managed to fool my point man for a good ten minutes into thinking that Jane was real. Since he's the best in his business, one can only assume that this means you are too.' His words are elegant, a real salesman, the right amount of appropriately complimentary comments pouring off his tongue. If he hadn't started dreaming, Arthur knows that Dominic Cobb would have made a great politician. Not that any of that makes much different because their new forger isn't Jane, it's _Eames_, which makes everything different, because now he's not just a guy he slept with almost two years ago, he's a possible colleague.  
>Arthur liked it better when he was Glenn, and all he had to worry about was surviving the night in his rat and druggie infested apartment building, or getting sleep while the gangs shot holes in each other through to the early hours of the morning. However, he is nothing if not polite, and he steps forward fluidly, offering his hand and hoping he's changed enough in the past eighteen months to confuse Eames, if only long enough for Arthur to melt back into the shadows. 'A pleasure, Mr Eames.' Eames shakes it, watching him with a curious expression, and Arthur fights to keep his own face carefully blank.<p>

'Likewise Mr...?'

'Arthur. Just Arthur.' He replies, smirking gently, a flicker of emotion as Eames frowns. He knows Cobb is shooting him a look, but he doesn't care.

Finally, the Englishman's blue green eyes move off him to Cobb, who shakes his head firmly and introduces himself as Dom.

Dom. Not Cobb. Interesting...

Kyle's the only person who gives his full name, smiling as Eames in the easy, always cheerful way he greets everyone, from long lost friends to strangers, to people he sees every day, and Arthur watches Eames smile back, almost unconsciously, it looks like. He knows what it's like to be on the receiving end of _that_ smile. It's like being the only person in the world for a second, just a second, until Kyle's attention moves on to the other people in the room, or the job at hand, or whatever happened to be going on behind wherever he smiled. You just can't help but smile back when someone's looking at you like that. Cobb checks his watch, just as music begins to permeate the Venice alley. 'Here comes the kick,' Kyle warns. 'We got about three minutes, seventeen seconds.'  
>Arthur doesn't pretend to understand Kyle's innate time telling ability, but he trusts it, and when he begins the melodramatic countdown as usual, he ignores the eye roll from Eames and braces himself, waiting for the kick.<p>

* * *

><p>He blinks, and wakes up in a warehouse in Paris, exactly where he went to sleep five minutes ago, only now, instead of just him and Cobb, lounging on lawn chairs, Kyle and Eames are sitting up on identical pieces of furniture as Amy flits about between them. The world is still a little blurry, and Arthur's still a little hungover, so he scrubs at his eyes with the hell of his hand and reaches for the coffee he poured just before going under. It had been burning hot then, and it's the perfect temperature now, so he takes it and sneaks out of the room to his 'office' [not so much an office as a small room off the main building that Arthur appropriated and filled with a desk and enough paper to replant the Amazon rainforest] to work. Or to feign work, at least.<br>He gets away with it for twenty or minutes or so, until a timid knock comes from behind him, where the ajar door has been burning a hole in his back. He'd struggled to not shut it completely, but he's damned if Eames' being here changes anything, so he leaves it ajar like normal. 'Can I help you, Mr Eames?'

There's silence for minutes that stretch into hours [he's exaggerating, of course. Sue him.], and Arthur thinks he imagined it [Wouldn't be the first time] and so he goes back to his work, flicking through pages in the newspaper as he pretends to be looking for a job. 'Your real name is Arthur? Or is that another nom de plume, _darling_?' Arthur thinks it would better for both of them if he pretends he didn't hear that last word, hear the animosity curling up the end of the question.

'Arthur's real,' he says, not looking up or pausing in the rhythm of turning the pages in the paper. 'Is Eames?'

Even without looking, he knows that Eames has thrown a lazy shrug over one shoulder. 'As real as it wants to be,' he says. 'How did you know it was me at the door?'

'You knocked,' he answers imply, looking up and round from his paper. 'No one ever does.'

With that, the conversation seems to be over, as Eames moves no further into the room than the inches he gained while watching Arthur 'work', and Arthur turns back to his paper, pretending to pore over the classifieds.  
>'So, Dublin.' Eames says eventually, and when Arthur looks up he's moved eight feet round the desk, so he's lounging in the chair in front of him, lounging like he did in Dublin, and Arthur suddenly feels uncomposed.<p>

'Yes?' he enquires, sitting up just a little straighter and fiddling with a cufflink as he watches the Englishman shift, just a little bit.

'It was eighteen months ago...' he says slowly, almost like he's talking to himself, and Arthur resists the urge to say 'and eight days' because really, what different do eight days make when it's been eighteen months? So he nods and waits for Eames to speak.

Eames' mouth opens and closes slightly, and opens again, leaving his lips slightly parted as he licks them. 'Dom offered me a job with his team... I guess that means you.' Arthur nods. 'I'm taking it.'

Arthur nods again. 'Welcome to the team, Mr Eames.'

Eames grins suddenly, and hops out of the chair, making his way round the piles of books, the solemnity of the conversation forgotten, clearly. 'Thanks, darling. Looking forward to working with you.' With a wink, he's gone, the door swinging shut gently as he bounds out of the room. Arthur can hear distant conversation between him and Amy, and he rolls his eyes. He knows that he and Eames will have to discuss Dublin at some point, but for now, he's going to keep his mouth shut and when he's finished working, he's going to the nearest bar and ordering more vodka and coke's than can be healthy.

The first time he finds himself getting drunk with Eames since Dublin, it doesn't led to anything. The two men sit side by side and get progressively drunker as the night turns into darker night, then dawn, stumbling home to separate apartments in the same building. Cobb insists that no matter what country in the world they were in, they all be within shouting distance of each other when asleep, and when in Paris, that means Cobb, Kyle, Amy [and now Eames] subletting various apartments in Arthur's building, sometimes different floors, but never side by side apartments. Cobb always insisted on that. Arthur has no idea why, and he's not about to ask. He just falls into bed half dressed and promising himself he's never going to drink with Eames again, for various reasons.  
>Something tells him he's going to break that promise, and he's having trouble feeling even a little guilty about it.<p>

* * *

><p>The second time he finds himself getting drunk with Eames [and Arthur still doesn't feel guilty about breaking his promise], he starts the conversation with a single word, and Arthur knows that he is nowhere near drunk enough for this.<p>

'Dublin.' Eames says, and Arthur turns to look at him silently, knowing that yes, they will _have_ to talk about it sooner or later.

'Dublin,' he replies warily, hiding the hesitation in his eyes by tilting his head back to swallow the last of his drink [vodka and coke yet again, because he's just a glutton for punishment, at the end of the day].

Eames cocks his head and grins again, eyes sparkling. 'You were a bloody good lay, darling.'

Arthur isn't quite sure how to respond to that. So he orders another drink, more sure than before [if possible] that he can't have this conversation without at least one more drink in him. The barman says something to him after he orders, and Arthur's busy accepting his drink and sipping at it, so he almost misses Eames' next statement.

'Want to do it again?' Arthur still doesn't know what to say, so he settles for choking on an ice cube. Then he realises that Eames is actually waiting for him to answer, and he colours.

'Well, I uh, I, we work together now and...' he trails off, having run out of things to say coherently about three drinks back. So he settles for looking at Eames' smug, superior grin, and he suddenly feels angrier than he has in a long time.

So he floors Eames, fist connecting with the side of the older man's head with a very satisfying clunk that sends him careening to the floor with a very unmanly yelp. One of the virtues of this particular establishment is that for as long as Arthur's owned the apartment in Paris, any time he's in the country he knows that he can come here and unwind without drama, because there is so much of it happening around him already. Eames' crash to the floor doesn't draw more than a few curious gazes and a sharp look from Andrew, the barman, who knows that Arthur doesn't punch someone unless they absolutely deserve it [or they're Kyle. He has his reasons.]. Arthur glances at the bar and looks at his drink, snagging the mostly full glass and knocking it back in one gulp. Then he bends down and offers a hand to Eames, who's still sitting on the floor, baffled written all over his expression. He helps him up and then grabs his own suit jacket, sliding it on gracefully. 'Why not, Mr Eames?' he says, and lets a grin flicker on his usually carefully blank face.

* * *

><p>Eames appears to be taking revenge for the right hook by gripping Arthur's hips hard enough to leave purple and blue bruises decorating them the next morning, and kissing him hard enough to leave his vision spinning and lips tingling. He tastes like blood and good scotch, just for a minute, and then a sweet, yet spicy taste that he's sure is one hundred percent Eames, like rain and cinnamon.<p>

They fuck in the alley behind the bar, and because Arthur knows Andrew, he knows that no one will interrupt them. He's too drunk to care about who tops, and this seems to be turning into a pattern with him and Eames, but he's too drunk to care about that either. It starts to rain when they're finished, cleaning off the smears of come, and sizzling where it hits flushed cheeks, and Arthur has to smile, because really, it seems appropriate, somehow, and besides, he loves the rain. He looks up at the sky, closing his eyes and just letting the cool water soak him to the skin.

* * *

><p>It's exactly two years after Dublin, and just under six months since Arthur started this thing with Eames. He doesn't know exactly what this <em>thing<em> is yet, but he knows there are good parts and bad parts. Today is a good part.

Something else Arthur knows about this thing is that there are no expectations of him, and there should be none for Eames.

Which means, when he wakes up in the morning, still naked, his hair stuck to his forehead with dried sweat, and alone, he knows better than to expect Eames to be making tea. [a very small part of him still does though, and he has to fight to keep the disappointment off his face when he finds an empty kitchen]

One of the things that clues Arthur in to this being a bad day is finding Eames in the kitchen, making tea. Which only happens when the world is about to end [Eames' overly melodramatic words, not his]. Breakfast is on the table, and as Arthur kicks his seat out to sit in wearily, a cup of tea appears in front of him. Without looking or tasting, he knows it's cream and two and a half sugars, and that it'll taste mind-blowingly amazing. Eames' tea always does. He doesn't try it though, instead watching the steam dancing out of the cup, twirling patterns in the air that keep catching his eye every time he resigns himself to looking away. He knows this is possibly a fault on his part for not wanting to look at Eames, because this is the first time that they've done this morning after thing [the first time he's had a 'morning after' since Tom] and he doesn't know if there are rules to be followed [there are _always_ rules] or what he should say, and now he knows things must be bad because he hasn't mind-babbled like this since he was sixteen. He tears his attention away from the steam curls, fading as it cools and looks at Eames, who's watching him warily. His eyes flicker between Arthur and the tea, and Arthur realises that Eames is _nervous_ about this, and he takes a gulp of tea [miraculously escaping without a burnt tongue], smiling automatically when it's just as delicious as he knew it would be. On the table in front of his is an omelette with what looks like red peppers and mushrooms. His favourite, of course.

It's a testament to Eames that Arthur doesn't ask how he knew that. He begins eating [it's delicious, obviously], spearing a slice of mushroom with his fork, before he realises that Eames isn't sitting, just lounging [as always] against the counter, sipping at his own tea, and he kicks the chair opposite him out with a screech against the floor. Eames flinches slightly, eyeing the chair as if he thinks it will bite. Arthur rolls his eyes a little. 'Sit,' he says between bites. The omelette really was very good.

Eames sits, now glancing sideways around the small kitchen. It's immaculate, as Arthur knew it would be, somehow. Eames might dress like a colour-blind hobo, but all the glimpses Arthur's gleaned from him of his apartment [mostly just the bedroom, he has to admit, and Eames' seemingly overwhelming urges to fold Arthur's jacket any time he takes it off, either at work or at the end of the day as the younger man sheds the outer layers of clothing; jacket, tie and shoes] says that he's a man who appreciates order. Arthur thinks wryly of his own kitchen, dirty dishes in the sink and the fridge full of leftover Chinese food. He stabs at a sliver of pepper and gestures at the empty table in front of Eames. 'Not eating?'

Eames shakes his head, finishing his tea and sliding the cup to one side. 'After I run.'

'You run?' Arthur asks, and then wonders why he's surprised. He knows from experience that Eames has an exceedingly large amount of stamina, and has watching him run in dreams for hours without seeming to tire or break a sweat. He's not a fool, he knows time works differently in dreams, but even taking that into account, Eames is clearly a marathon runner compared to most of the team. Eames nods, and gets up from the table to wash his cup out and replace it in the cupboard. Arthur watches him, still feeling sluggish, almost as if this is a dream, because he's still reeling that after six months of sleeping together as the basic constituent of their relationship, Eames has let him in to his personal life.

'I'll be back in about an hour, just leave your plate and stuff in the sink, 'kay, darling?' he says without tone or inflection, and Arthur's left reeling again, because of course Eames has called him darling before, but never like this, exactly, it's always been...

Arthur can't really explain it. It's always been loving, but there's been something else there, a sense of sarcasm, or mocking wrapped up in that self deprecating sort of fondness that Eames embodies so well. This time it seems sort of... thoughtless. Automatic. Something that belongs in a relationship that is _actually_ a relationship, not this idle fucking that they share. Eames leaves, and Arthur suddenly feels like he should leave too, run back to his own apartment downstairs. Except they're in Mexico, and Arthur's always hated his Mexico apartment [even more than he hates Dubai].

And his omelette really is _very_ good. All this seems to add up to, in Arthur's head, finishing breakfast, having one more cup of tea and helping himself to a quick shower [the tight feeling his skin always has when it has dried sweat coating it making him feel almost diseased, and certainly not up to human interaction [except Eames, who doesn't count, because it's Eames]], being sure not to use all the hot water, because he's ninety percent sure Eames is going to want to shower when he gets home. He dresses slowly in Eames' bedroom, looking around and feeling oddly [or perhaps not so oddly] like an intruder. Even though he's been invited in, and pretty much given the run of this place, he can still see the undrawn boundaries drawn in chalk around him, and he can't bring himself to cross them. He prowls around the apartment, barefoot [for some reason, this seems important to him], taking note of things that seem strange. For one, Eames doesn't own a TV, but is extraordinarily well versed in pop culture references. Neither are there any books that he can see, but on an empty shelf there's what looks like an e-reader, lightly covered in dust. Not used often then. Back in the bedroom, there's a laptop on standby, and a cardboard box that unexplainably draws Arthur to it. One of the afore mentioned boundaries. Arthur feels that closed boxes are akin to drawers. You don't just rummage through them for the sake of it.

This one though, is only half closed, one of the flaps hanging open, and Arthur can see the faint outline of books in the gloomy corner of the bedroom. He flips the other flaps open, ignoring the faint feeling of guilt pooling in his stomach, and draws out a couple of books, frowning as he reads the titles. He's never heard of them, and he flips through _Bright Lights, Big City_ idly, folding himself into a cross legged position in front of the box. When he's finished, he puts it back in the box and picks up a couple more books, more recognisable this time. _The Horse Whisperer_ and _The Great Gatsby_, one of his personal favourites, and apparently one of Eames' as well, judging by the well thumbed corners and the almost destroyed binding. It's nothing compared to the book he pulls out next though, the spine so destroyed the front cover is hanging on by strings of glue and slivers of clear tape. _The Fountainhead_ is Eames' most read book, apparently, because he sorts through the rest of the books [some faintly embarrassing books in there, _Wuthering Heights_ and _Jane Eyre_ to name a few] and none of them look in any way as loved as _The Fountainhead_. Some of them, _Dracula_ and _The Portrait of Dorian Grey_ look almost new, shoved right at the bottom of the box under a tatty looking copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ [something Arthur can't help sniggering at] and a copy of _To Kill A Mockingbird_ that's in almost as bad condition as _The Fountainhead_. He turns his attention back to Eames' favourite, turning it over carefully to read the synopsis. Set in 1920's New York, it's about an architect called Howard Roark and this concept called objectivism, 'an uncompromising defence of self-interest as the engine of progress'.

'Back when I was first involved with this extraction business, I thought I wanted to be an architect.' The voice is quiet, but Arthur still jumps, turning around and feeling all too much like a child caught doing something he shouldn't be. Eames is standing behind him, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, breathing slightly harder than normal, but he doesn't look angry, like Arthur would have been had he found someone looking at _his_ obviously private things. Instead he folds his legs underneath himself to sit down Indian-style next to Arthur, packing all the books back in the box lovingly, except for _The Fountainhead_, which he takes out of Arthur's grip and flicks through it, looking for all the world like he's reading it for the first time, childlike expression of joy not looking at all out of place on the usually confident and self assured face he's used to seeing every day at 'work'.  
>'Why didn't you?' Arthur asks, not entirely sure he wants to ask it. His brain seems to be working on autopilot today.<p>

Eames blinks, and looks up from his book, startled. Almost as if he had forgotten about Arthur. 'Why didn't I what?'

'Become an architect.' Arthur prompts him, subtly craning his neck to read a passage of the book, held open in Eames' lap. '_No one could tell how it happened. There had been no deliberate intention behind it. It had just happened...'_

Eames chuckles, closing the book carefully, wary of the loose cover and slides it back into the box, on the top and flips the lid shut again. 'Can't build worth shit, love. Couple of run-ins with the fuzz later, I realised I was a better thief than I was a builder. And a much better forger than I was a thief.'

Arthur smiles, almost unconsciously. This is good, he knows. Knowing just that little bit more about Eames, where he came from, the fact that he was younger, that he didn't spring from the ground fully formed [not that Arthur believes in any seriousness that he did, but sometime he wonders...], that Eames did in fact exist _before_ Arthur.

He's well aware how narcissistic that sounds in his head, that of _course_ there was Eames without Arthur, but in moments like this, it sometimes seems to him that there can't have been Eames without Arthur, nor Arthur without Eames. It's ridiculous. Ludicrous, even. But he still catches himself thinking it, every so often. And today, with the display in the kitchen, the meaningless 'darling' dropped from Eames' lips like nothing, the feeling is back, and Arthur realises that this is more than fucking. This is _something_. A relationship.

He can't bring himself to feel that panicked tightness in his chest that he always feels when he knows that _this_ [whatever this may be] is real. He tries to muster up a semblance of that old fight or flight feeling when Eames gets up, dropping a kiss on the top of Arthur's head as he heads for the shower, shedding his clothes on the way. There's nothing.

And that, more than anything, worries him. 


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry for the delay in updating. The last chapter will be posted later tonight, by way of apology._

* * *

><p>Arthur turns and stands, hopping off the barstool with every intention of leaving, but Eames' hand grips his wrist lightly, and Eames looks so open, so vulnerable, that Arthur just can't find it in himself to leave. Not right now. So he sits back down and orders another drink, something stronger than scotch, because something tells him he's going to need it. They drink in silence, before Eames, staring at the fingerprint smudges in front of him, speaks. 'Where are you going now? After that job, I'd think somewhere quiet.' He sounds calm, matter-of-fact, almost like talking to a stranger. Maybe that's what Arthur is to him now.<p>

'Where are _you_ going?' returns Arthur evenly.

'I was thinking Athens,' muses Eames, tilting his now empty glass to one side, balancing it on the bar. 'Your turn.'

'Dublin.' Arthur says it quietly, turning to look Eames in the face, the first eye-contact he's made all evening. He watches expressions flickering across Eames' face. Shock, covered up by betrayal, a flash or anger, and something strange clinging to the tail end of the Englishman's thought-process. Something almost wistful, like he was remembering Dublin.  
>Thought how could he forget? Arthur knows that <em>Dublin<em> is burnt into his memory. Dublin and everything it meant to Arthur and Eames' fucked-up, dysfunctional relationship. It was a beginning of sorts, and almost certainly an ending. No matter what happens to Arthur, what happens to Eames, they'll always have had Dublin.

Guilt. For the first time in a long time, Arthur looks at Eames and feels guilt, and understands how it made Cobb into a ghost, a shade. Guilt is slow burning, carnivorous. Guilt is not picky, isn't bothered by who it sinks it's all too human claws into.

Arthur feels guilt and wonders whether it was worth bringing Dublin up at all.

Eames waves the bartender over and orders a new drink. Arthur doesn't listen to the words, what he orders, just the tone of voice, but he can't hear anything different. Just the same old Eames, right down to his feet. But the eyes. That emotion is still clinging to the edge of the easy smile he gives the bartender in return for his drink.

Arthur looks at the glass and sees Dublin. 'Vodka and coke?' he manages to get out, but all he can hear in his head are jovial Irish accents plying them with more drinks, always more drinks. Hot lips on fevered skin, and hands touching everywhere, constantly touching.

Eames takes a drink. 'Your move,' he says simply, without tone or inflection, yet Arthur never heard anything sound as much like 'checkmate' before.

He sits in silence, watching Eames drink slowly, calmly, until the glass is empty and he orders another. More silence as he watches the drink being mixed and brought over, until Eames takes a sip of this one, Arthur watching the line of his throat as he swallows.

'I do miss you, you know,' Eames says suddenly, voice barely perceptible over the noise of the rapidly filling bar. So quiet, so un-Eames-like that Arthur looks at him, really, really looks at him, wondering, just wondering if this is the real Eames [if all this is really just a dream?]. He can feel the weight of his totem in his pocket, but he doesn't roll it. Not yet. Not until he's sure he wants to know [if he ever does].

Eames is looking at him, and Arthur knows he has to say something, anything, so he says 'You miss me? Let's not forget who walked away from this, from us. Because it sure as hell wasn't me.'

It's three years after Dublin, and somewhere along the way Arthur forgot how to love. How to not hate Eames to the point of feeling like he's burning up inside, like he'll explode if he doesn't do something, _anything_.

He pins Eames to the wall, snarling as he claws at his clothes, a truly hideous sunflower yellow shirt that deserves to be ripped to shreds. He claims the older man's mouth with hot lips, thrusting his tongue inside and licking up the roof of his mouth with a fierce intensity that used to scare him. Untucking the shirt from where it had been escaping from Eames' pants, he rakes nails down his chest, making him moan and writhe under Arthur's hands, the noises swallowed by his roaming mouth or the noise from the club next door, the thick drum and bass beat vibrating through the ground to jump in Arthur's belly next to the lust that's pooling there as Eames attempts to wrest some control back by tearing his mouth from the younger mans and scraping his teeth along Arthur's jaw and nibbling savagely at his collarbone.

Arthur's knees sag momentarily and he braces himself against the wall, Eames trapped between two unyielding, immovable objects. He tries to remedy this, gripping Arthur tighter in an attempt to rebalance things, in turn pinning the other man against the wall, but Arthur merely wraps a hand around the nape of his neck, growling _no_ into Eames' neck as he presses open mouthed kisses there, his free hand fumbling at his belt buckle.

They fuck right there, against the alley wall covered in blood and graffiti, and it fails to make Arthur feel dirty like it used to. They don't speak as they clean up, tucking back in and zipping up, and when they're done they leave, walking out of the alley and heading in different directions silently, and Arthur can't help but feel they left their relationship, broken and battered as it was, lying in the alley next to the smudges of come decorating the brickwork. Arthur goes home to his apartment, rented and empty apart from the bed and an open suitcase, the contents folded meticulously, just downstairs from Eames' real apartment. They're in London for a job, Arthur and Eames and Cobb and Kyle, the team well on their way to extraction notoriety, and with their newfound success comes all the flaws and annoying idiosyncrasies that four starving artists [as Kyle calls them, a smirk dancing on his lips every time] could once ignore and no longer can.

They all act exactly the same of course, because they haven't changed in any way that seems important right now, but suddenly the first thing that springs to mind for Arthur right now is Kyle's mindless optimism, unfailing in anything that anyone should [and does] hold dear, and the fact that Cobb's wife is following them into their dreams, sabotaging anything she can get her hands on, and all Dom can do is draw away from the others, refusing to learn about the dreams Kyle builds in the hope that one day Mal will be gone, forced out of the dream with simple boredom on her part.

And what annoys him more than anything else is Eames. Arthur can't [doesn't want to] explain it exactly, but all the little things about Eames [he smokes too much, and plays piano at three in the morning, when his insomnia wears lines in his face and holes in the carpet from pacing, and Arthur can't find it in himself to feel any more sympathy for the man so intent on destroying whatever they both built up together] are pushing them apart faster than anything they could do deliberately.

Arthur knows it's not solely Eames' fault though. He knows that he has things about him that drive Eames to smoking two, three packs in as many days, and he knows that it's probably his fault that has Eames pacing for hours at a time, picking out tunes on the piano that he used to listen to and smile, and now he can't listen to them, because they remind him of when everything wasn't falling apart. He knows that Eames won't be back until dawn, because that's what happens when one of them walks out. They leave, because they're scared of what'll happen if they stay.

He also knows that he'll come back though. Arthur doesn't even want to think about what'll happen, what he'll do if Eames doesn't come back. Because this relationship is frayed and torn, but at the end of the day, it's _Them_, and it's been Them for so long Arthur honestly doesn't know how to be just Him. It's been eighteen months of loving Eames and hating Eames and doing both at the same time so much that it's all Arthur is, at the end of the day. He _is_ Eames, and Eames is him, and he knows it's not healthy being so wrapped up in one person, one thing, but right now, he doesn't care.

Right now, he's just waiting for the sun to come up, and Eames to walk through the front door smelling of smoke and alcohol, and he'll fall into bed before deciding he can't sleep and he'll play the piano for hours until Arthur wants to break every single one of its keys. And if that's how things are from now on, Arthur'll take it for what it is.

Just don't ask him what _it_ is.

Eames has been gone for three weeks, and this time, Arthur doesn't think he's coming back. The job in London is long since finished, clumsily because of their absentee forger, and the team decided to split and lay low for a while. Cobb to Kenya, Kyle to New York, and Arthur…

Arthur went to Dublin.

The little pub he stayed at before was gone, replaced by a neon monstrosity full of teenagers, barely legal and high on whatever they can get their fifteen year old hands on. He moves on, through the bustling city, and it's only been three years, but it looks like an alien world to him. Quieter than New York, but crazy compared to serene Paris, Dublin is in between worlds. He finds an inn, Tudor design out of place beside the Holiday Inn and Pizza Hut, but for Arthur it's perfect.

It's the best night's sleep he's had since Eames left.

The third night he's there, he's woken in the morning by a knock on the door, and the stereotypical little old lady [the one that always seems to be the murderer in these sorts of places, but he won't dwell on that]. She's holding a postcard, a cheap one from somewhere tacky, and it's blank, apart from the address. She shrugs, and hands it over, and he spends a few seconds turning it over, and reading the address in the cramped and hard to read handwriting he knows better than his own.  
><em>Eames<em>.

That son of a bitch. He just _can't_ leave Arthur alone. He's not content with leaving. Arthur just knows that this won't be the last postcard he gets, somehow.

Arthur knows he has to stop getting drunk and _being_ like this with people, but right now he's _very_ drunk, and he really couldn't care less how he's behaving tonight.

Even if said behaviour does consist of backing Kyle up against a wall and kissing him until his mouth doesn't taste of Eames anymore. He's nibbling along Kyle's jaw when he feels the taller man pull away mere millimetres to breathe words into Arthur's ear.

'What is this?"

Arthur moves along his jawbone, licking and sucking where it meets his neck. 'What's what?'

Kyle's back arches as Arthur presses a burning kiss to a spot just under his ear, fingers brushing along the sensitive skin just above the waistband of his dress pants. '_This,_' he hisses, pressing his thumbs into the hollow under Arthur's hip bones, hands icy cold, like the wind he just came in from. It's winter in Berlin, and they've had almost six inches of snow today. That, coupled with the hurricane like winds and three weeks of previous snow, and all the planes in and out of Berlin Airport have been grounded, or Arthur would have fled to Melbourne. As well as being sunny, it has the added bonus of being one of the places that they've never had a job, and therefore Eames has never been inside his apartment there, and it remains untouched by the suffocating fog of Eames that permeates his Paris apartment, and his New York apartment, and countless other buildings.

He doesn't answer Kyle, bracing himself against the bathroom wall with one hand at the side of Kyle's head, and moves his head to bite at his collarbone, free hand unbuttoning the younger man's shirt to give him better access, and Kyle breathes his name, _Arthur_ hitching in the middle of his whisper that reminds him uncomfortably of how he sounded when Eames made him scream.

He dips his thumb under the waistband, nipping at his shoulder with his teeth before reminding him that 'It's Daniel right now, not Arthur. You _can't_ afford to break cover now.'

'Answer me,' Kyle whispers fiercely.

Arthur pulls back completely to regard him, before leaning back in, millimetres separating their lips. He can feel Kyle's breath hot on his skin. 'What do you mean?' he asks, voice low but not whispering, rough with lust.

'You've been wandering around since Eames left like you've had your dick chopped off, and you have no fucking clue what you're gonna do now, until about half an hour ago, where you attached yourself to my face like you've been doing it for years. I gotta tell you, _Daniel_,' [Arthur ignores the tone in which the word curls over him, ignores the burning anger sizzling into lust beaming out of the azure eyes] Kyle leans forward and bites Arthur's lip, savagely, curling it under with his teeth, almost drawing blood, Arthur thinks. 'It feels a little like I'm the rebound guy. So forgive me for asking what the fuck you're doing.' He presses his lips to Arthur's quick, chaste. 'Not complaining you understand. Just curious.'

Arthur presses closer to Kyle, the cold bathroom tiles on the other man's back, bare from where his shirt's ridden up, and mashes his lips to him for just a second, before backing away enough to look him in the eye. 'You're honestly gonna tell me you care either way?' He asks, watching as Kyle pants for breath, chest heaving, pupils blown, lips swollen and scarlet.

He answers by wrapping the hand that's not entwined with Arthur's belt around the nape of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss and licking his way into Arthur's mouth, drawing the very tip across the roof of his mouth and making him shudder.

Arthur grins, feral, and swallows the kiss deeper.

Arthur's stomach twists with guilt and pain as he watches Kyle sag between two men bigger than he thought men could be. One of Arthur's eyes is crusted shut with dried blood that still trickles from a cut on his forehead, but the other can't look away. Can't stop looking into Kyle's eyes, too blue surrounded by all the red. It streams from his eyes, like tears of blood, and Arthur's vision blurs with nausea as he realises they chopped his tear ducts out. Blood leaks like spilled wine, streaking down his face every time he closes his eyes, opening the wound that has no time to close.

Arthur cries his own salty tears because Kyle can't.

Arthur fights because Kyle can't. Not with two men twisting his arms until it looks like his elbow joints will pop, blowing through the skin with fragments of used-to-be-bone. Like his knee, now useless dead weight, his right leg dragging behind him, ruined. They have to be dreaming, they can't be awake. He wrestles free from his own guards, hunting in pockets for his totem, now a dulled red die that shines despite the layer of hard living it gained, not unlike him. It's in his hand, and he's rolling it, about to roll when a boot comes down hard on his hand, shattering the fingers, the hand, the wrist. He screams, and his totem is gone, hidden in the mess of bone shards that used to be his hand.

Kyle's trying to speak past chipped teeth and torn lips, and Arthur's pretty sure his jaw's broken [as sure he can be when the pain in his hand is making his vision go white and there are bells ringing in his ears like air raid sirens], but he _still_ tries to speak, spitting out words and molars like he'll die if he doesn't. Flecks of blood fly out with the mangled words, and Arthur can't hear anything over the sound of his own screaming as the boot comes back down, grinding his hand into the concrete floor. He forces his head up, looking at Kyle, fighting past the pain in his hand and the ringing in his head that's a thousand times worse than the nausea he felt earlier, and his blood runs cold, then hot as he realises what Kyle's mouthing.

_'Dreaming.'_

They're _dreaming_. He doesn't know if it's true, he can't roll his totem with a broken hand, the other busy curling into ribs he knows are broken, but if all he has to trust is Kyle, then he has to. He unfolds from his foetal position, ignoring the broken glass feeling in his lungs and reaches for a gun he knows they haven't found and his hand snaps forward, perfect marksmanship hitting first one of the men holding Kyle, then the other, and he winces as the architect hits from the floor and vomits blood, red strings of bile hanging from shredded lips. Arthur's gasping for breath as he rolls over, flinching when his broken ribs shift, jabbing at his lungs and firing again, and he keeps firing at the man who broke his hand, his ribs, the man who shot Kyle in the stomach and _made him watch_. He fires until he has two bullets left.

One for Kyle, and one for himself.

He wakes up slowly, eyelids heavy as he blinks away the black, and he can't understand why his limbs aren't working like they should. His mind is foggy, and so is his vision, and he fights to clear it, struggling to sit up and wincing when he pushes himself up using his right hand, dropping back to hit the pillows behind him and hissing in pain as that jolts ribs that he thinks are broken. He stares blearily at his hand, covered in white plaster from knuckles to elbow, his index and middle fingers taped together and his hand looks blindingly white with it all. His throat is dry, scratchy, like he's been screaming in his dreams.  
>And then he remembers what he was dreaming about, and he doesn't think he's ever been this scared in his life. Bile rises in his throat, and he rolls to his side, coughing and sputtering as he splatters on the floor, just missing the rug he knows as his own, and he realises he's in his own apartment.<p>

More pieces slide into place as his ribs [definitely broken, he decides] scream at him for the movement, and the injury is just too close to that which he sustained in the dream world that he decides it's time to panic. His chest contracts, and there are iron bars on his ribs and he fights to draw breath, voice creaking as he calls out names. _Cobb. Kyle. Eam-_ His breath catches in his throat as he realises that he lost Eames, and he might have lost Kyle, too. And he doesn't think he can handle that.

He chokes on the next panicked breath, and Cobb is _there_ suddenly, there like he's always been when Arthur needed him, like Arthur had been for him when he lost Mal, and his hand is on Arthur's chest, not crushing, just restraining, and he's shouting at Arthur to calm down and breathe slowly or he'll shoot him, goddamnit, and Arthur can feel the iron bars loosening as Cobb talks, incessant, unrelenting, until he's breathing normally, and the black spots vanish from his eyes.

He licks his lips and tastes dry blood, like rust and salt on his tongue. He doesn't think he can speak yet, his throat torn to pieces by things he was doing while he 'slept', but he still coughs out one more word, _Kyle_, and he watches as Cobb hides a wealth of emotions behind the mask built by the death of his wife, yet his eyes tell Arthur that something's wrong, seriously wrong, and Arthur's heart skips a beat all over again. Cobb swallows and looks away, and Arthur knows, just _knows_ that Kyle's gone, and he's not coming back. There's something hollow in his chest, hollow like when Eames left, but his eyes stay dry. He cried all his tears while he was dreaming.


	4. Chapter 4

'I walked away, Arthur. It was you who chose not to follow.'

Arthur says nothing. What _can_ he say? Sorry says too much and not enough at the same time, and Arthur knows he's wrong, but Eames is wrong too, and that has to count for something in this self destructive, ticking time bomb relationship they share. Doesn't it? Because he loves Eames, truly loves him, and it _hurt_ when he left, hurt more than anything he's ever felt, and he knows that _that's_ wrong too. Is everything in Arthur's life wrong? Things used to be right, he's sure of it. He _knows_ that his life wasn't always upside down, topsy turvy, fucking _inside out_, but that was a long time ago. Before inception, before Cobb, before Eames came into his life.

The thing about his 'life' [so called] with Eames that amazed Arthur was the balance. The love and the hate always perfectly matched, never wavering. For every argument between them, every harsh word, poison dripping between them, Arthur always knew that he loved Eames, and Eames loved him, in their own fucked up, Jerry Springer way, and somehow that made things... excusable. Or, if not excusable, then... forgivable.  
>Repentable.<p>

Arthur's glass is empty again, but he waves the still hovering bartender away impatiently. He doesn't want to have this conversation [the one he knows is coming, but can't seem to walk away from] sober, but he just _can't_ have it drunk. He sighs, and turns to face the man sitting silently next to him. He can feel the animosity bleeding off him in waves, and watches the way Eames' gaze is fiery, burning so hot the ice in the glass is melting in his hand. 'Why are you here, Eames?' he says, with more care than he meant, a gentleness he no longer knew he possessed. Eames shrugs, throwing one shoulder up and down in a careless way that was so unequivocally _him_ that Arthur found himself longing for a relationship that he never had, and didn't know he could miss.

'I mean, you claim you miss me, but you do nothing but try and drive me away. You claimed you _loved_ me, and yet you left. So what is it, Eames? What am _I_? When you _say_ you love me, what do you _really_ mean?'

'I mean I love you. I always have, and I always will,' Eames says quietly, still not turning to look, still staring into his drink, still speaking without saying _anything_, and Arthur's getting angry.  
>'I don't believe you,' he says tightly, restrained anger hiding in his voice, and Eames looks up, but not meeting his eye. Never meeting his eye. Arthur watches, fingers curled into loose fists automatically, as Eames delves into his pants pocket, bringing out his totem, a dull red poker chip as he flicks it in the air, eyes tracing its path as it tumbles lazily upwards, and then back down to land in the forger's waiting hand. He flicks it again, and once more, staring as it lands in his hand, seemingly face up. His hand closes around the chip and it disappears into a pocket as fast as it had appeared.<p>

'I nearly didn't take the job, you know?' Eames says, swivelling his head to eye Arthur. 'I mean, no love lost between me and the boss, and you know as well as I do that a good forger is always in high demand in these kind of...situations.'

'Why did you, then?' Arthur avoids Eames' gaze, feeling it on his cheek, the back of his neck, even as he looks away.

'You.'

_'I've got to talk to Eames.'_

_'Eames? But he's in Mombasa. Cobol's backyard.'_

_'Necessary risk.'_

_'There are plenty of other thieves.'_

_'We don't just need a thief. We need a forger.'_

It's been five years since Dublin, and Arthur feels nothing. That's what he tells himself, anyway. He's been lying to Cobb for the past two years, he might as well lie to himself as well. But when Cobb decides they need Eames for this ridiculous attempt at inception, all these feelings surge up inside him, the usual suspects like anger, and lust [not love. Definitely not love.], and something he wasn't expecting. Guilt. Which must be wrong, because Arthur doesn't feel guilt, hasn't since his mother told him guilt was an exercise in futility, twenty years ago. He was eight.

But he quashes the emotion and settles for glaring at Cobb as he leaves, apparently to get a plane to Mombasa. A very small part of him hopes he can't find Eames. [A much larger, much more traitorous part of him hopes he does]

_'Thanks for the contribution, Arthur.'_

_Eames, I'm impressed.'_

_'Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated Arthur, thank you.'_

Eames arrives, and he's just as cutting and sarcastic as he always was, only this time, there a bite that wasn't there before, and it hurts Arthur, like an old burn scar he'd forgotten, sizzling under the skin. He looks into Eames' eyes, and he sees nothing like he used to. He used to see _Eames_, and now, all he sees is blue-green swirls of nothing.

_'That, Ariadne, would be a kick.'_

He catches the smirk from Eames, of course he does, and it's the first time he's been even a little like the old Eames, the Eames from Dublin, the Eames that Arthur misses [not that he'd admit it, even to himself] more than anything else, sometimes.

_'You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.'_

The endearment rolls off his tongue, easy as water off a roof, and Arthur doesn't think Eames even noticed, busy as he is with his grenade launcher. He rolls his eyes back, an automatic gesture, not that he notices that either, too busy smirking childishly at the miniature explosion he's just cultivated. He turns to Arthur, genuinely smiling now, and Arthur feels something like heat tugging at his belly, and has to turn away before he smiles back.

_'Go to sleep, Mr Eames.'_

Eames smirks again, but it's fondly this time, and Arthur can't help smiling back as he watches him sleep, just for a few moments as he remembers early mornings waking up to find him fast asleep, rare as they were, and watching his chest rise and fall gently. It's the only time he's completely unguarded, and even then he's tense, weapon always in easy reach. Arthur convinced him not to sleep with the gun under his pillow [having the safety on or not, he's heard too many stories, and he likes Eames with both ears], but now there's a knife under the mattress and two guns in the bedside table, and no amount of persuading can convince Eames otherwise. Not that Arthur sleeps unarmed, but his hiding places aren't so clichéd, and anyway, he doesn't need a gun or a knife to kill someone.

One last look at Eames [he can't help it, he doesn't know why, but Eames just draws him in, like the Sun does the Earth, and no force, reality or dream, seems to be able to stop him], and he's gone, away around the room, checking on everyone's vitals automatically. [His fingers don't linger on Eames' neck or wrists. They _don't_.]

'Am I crazy to want to try again?' Eames asks, reaching out and running knuckles softly down Arthur's cheek, grazing his jaw.

Arthur feels his throat tighten, and knows there isn't enough alcohol in the world to make this conversation easy. 'I don't think it's crazy to try,' he chokes out eventually. 'I think it's crazy to imagine that this time will be different to the last.'

'But what if it is?'

'And what if it isn't?' Arthur counters. He steps off his barstool and steps away from Eames, bringing his hands to his head and turning on the stop to pace a few yards. 'Christ, Eames. Stop doing this... _whatever_ you're doing to me!'

'I'm not _doing_ anything!' Eames returns, shifting in his seat completely so he's facing Arthur, still taking strides back and forth across the polished floor.

'Yes you are! You come up to me with this, this ridiculous suggestion, and you _know_ it's going to end badly, so why do you _insist_ in doing this to me again? Do you delight in showing up out of the blue and ripping me to pieces? Is that what this is? Is this _fun_ for you? Because I just don't know anymore, Eames. I'm drawing a blank, so please tell me. _Why?_' Arthur stops pacing and slumps back into his seat, forehead pressing against the now tacky bar top.

'Because it was always you, Arthur. Never anyone else. I love _you_, and I don't care if it destroys me, because I can't not pretend anymore. I love you, and I know you love- loved me before, all those years ago. I don't know if you still do, but...'

Arthur shoots a look at him, voice laden with emotion. 'You don't just press a button and stop loving someone, Eames. You can't switch those sorts of feelings _off_.'

'Then why won't you give _us_ another chance? We can make this _work_!' It's Eames' turn to pace, quick, furious steps roiling with barely restrained frustration.

'Because it _hurts_. Being in love with you hurts, and I don't know how to make it stop hurting without hating you. And I don't want to hate you.' Tears threaten, and Arthur scrubs at his face angrily, turning away, but Eames is there, next to him, and he just can't look him in the eye. Not right now.

'Say yes.' Eames' voice is soft, the same gentleness Arthur had used before curling round the words. 'Come on, babe.'

'Why?' Arthur asks, too tired of _this_ to care, really. All he can do is repeat his earlier question, hoping that this time, just one time, he can get an answer, an honest answer. It's all he wants. 'Why will this time be any different?'

Eames is silent for a few seconds, before lowering his eyes to look at his feet and speaking. 'I don't know it will. I know I want to try again.' He looks up, looking at Arthur, who looks away almost immediately. He doesn't know what he'll see in those eyes, and he's terrified of finding out. 'Don't you?'

The bar is mostly full now, women in cocktail dresses or evening gowns negotiating the slippery hardwood floor in too-high heels, men in suits and ties escorting wives and girlfriends and miscellaneous to their seats. Arthur glances at Eames one last time, meeting his eye for the first time since piling the crushing weight of _Dublin_ onto an already over-laden back. Arthur knows he himself is practically bent double from it.

The totem that's been pressing on his thigh all night burns hot, and Arthur can't stand it. He pulls it out of his pocket and weighs it in his hand, watching the light glint off the slightly dulled plastic of his loaded die. He rolls it once, twice, three times.

Three.

Three.

Three.

He collects his totem in his hand and glances at Eames, who has a look on his face that Arthur just can't work out. It looks out of place, wrong, like wearing oversized clothing.

He bites his lip. Arthur knows this is going to end badly, end in heartbreak. The question is not _should he do this_, because that's a resounding 'no' shouted from every rooftop he can find, or even _does he want this_ because every molecule in his body knows he's never wanted anything more than he wants Eames, but instead _does he care?_ If heartbreak is the end product, but the process of getting there is _Eames_, he thinks he could survive an eternity of heartbreak for one day more, one _minute_ more with Eames.  
>Arthur finishes his drink in one long swallow and gets off his barstool, removing his already skewed tie and folding it into his pocket at he leaves the room, treading carefully as alcohol threads through his bloodstream. He ignores Eames as he strides out, quickly leaving the too-loud bustle of the bar behind him.<p>

He stands in the lobby of the hotel, squinting at the light, too bright for the evening dusk outside, and sends a text, just a single word. '_Yes_'

-  
><em>In a crowded bar, a phone buzzes.<em>

It's only been two years, but sex with Eames feels like coming home. He's been drinking steadily for a couple of hours, they both have, and Arthur almost feels like it should be drunken fumbling [on his part. Eames always did hold his drink better], and maybe it was, but he doesn't care, because it's been two years, and it's _Eames_. It feels different though, slower, but no less intense, where before it was burning bright sensations that boiled through him like white hot lust, over as soon as they arrived.

It hurts, but he welcomes that burn, because it makes him feel more alive than he has in two years. _Two years_, and only now is he able to admit that he's missed Eames like he would miss breathing. They move together, hands gripping to sweat-slick skin, fisting in too-short hair, mouths gasping against each other, and even though it's less rushed, it's still over too soon, and Arthur can't help but want more. Eames' nuzzling seems to suggest the older man feels the same, and they continue in the unending cycle of skin to skin contact for hours until there's sweat soaking Arthur's hair and his entire body feels tender, like exposed nerves. Even then they just lie together, talking in hushed voices [as if there's anyone to overhear them here], joined from hip to chest, until Eames' eyelids droop shut slowly, and Arthur is left lying awake, alone once again.

As Eames slumbers next to him, Arthur stares at the ceiling, before turning to look blankly at the clock on the bedside table, red blinking lights telling him it's so late it's considered early in sophisticated circles. He remembers good times spent with Eames in the small hours, both with and without alcohol, clothed and unclothed. It feels like years ago, only because it is, and Arthur turns to look at the sleeping body beside him. He knows it, knows it better than he knows his own body almost, knows the birthmark at the nape of his neck, silver and nearly invisible, the tattoo tracing fire down his arm delicately. The bullet hole scar just under his collarbone from what they both refer to as 'That Day In Dusseldorf', where they barely got out alive, Eames with a brand new mark on his body and Arthur with more grey hair than he'd care to admit.

The clock blinks scarlet and Arthur looks at the time without really seeing anything. He rubs gritty eyes and tries again. Two thirteen AM, and Arthur can't sleep. He slides out of bed, slipping the familiarly comforting noose Eames' arm makes over his hip and sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. Outside it rains.

It rained in Dublin, that night, the worst storm Arthur's ever seen. Rain rattles the windows and his blood runs cold.

He fumbles for his totem in the pocket of his discarded pants, and his hand shakes as he rolls it on the table. Three.

He rolls it again.

Three.

Again.

Three.

And then he stops rolling, and looks at the man asleep in the bed next to him, chest slowly rising and falling, and it feels like two years ago all over again.

He looks back at the dull red totem, hiding against the dark brown of the table, and he wonders, if it _is_ a dream, does he really care?

* * *

><p><em>Thanks to those who have favourited, put this story on alert, and read it.<em>


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